Fractured Fairytales
by MistWraith
Summary: Second part now up. The supernatural had already bitten Dean back. Now it was Sam's turn and all that was missing was the dress! Tlanguage. Please R&R.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: Don't I just wish I owned The Pretty.

**A/N**: Just for fun. It will be two chapters, each one basically a standalone. Hope you enjoy it. Please let me know what you think.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

**Chapter 1: Beauty**

Sam Winchester paced back and forth in the hospital waiting room, as he had been doing for the last four hours. It had been _five_ hours since he had brought his unconscious brother to the emergency room and Dean had been whisked away from him with no further word. He had no idea the reason he had a clear path for his perambulations was because his increasing level of concern was resulting in a Bother-Me-And-I-Just-Might-Bounce-You-Off-A-Wall expression his face.

The double doors at the far end of the hall opened and a doctor hurried through. She peered around the waiting room, caught sight of Sam and walked over to him.

"Mr.--," she glanced at the clipboard in her hand, "—Warren?"

Sam nodded vigorously. "Yes. Uh, how's my brother?"

She smiled. "I'm Dr. Halbertson. There's good news and some not-so-good news. The good news is, there's absolutely nothing wrong with your brother. He's perfectly healthy."

Sam felt the tight knot in his stomach loosen. "That's great!" Then he frowned. The doctor's expression was just a little _too_ upbeat. "What's the not-so-good news, then?"

"He's…still asleep."

"Dean's fine but he's still unconscious? I don't understand."

"Not _unconscious_, Mr. Warren. Asleep."

"_Asleep_ asleep? Winken, blinken and Nod-land asleep? 'Now I lay me down to' asleep?" Sam was thoroughly confused at this point. "Why is just being asleep bad news?"

"Because we can't get him to wake up. We've tried everything, from the most sophisticated medical approaches down to shouting in his ear and shaking him. Nothing."

"How is that different from unconscious?" Sam demanded.

"It just _is_, Mr. Warren. They are two different physical conditions. We've done tests and scans and the result is, he is _not_ unconscious, he's asleep. It's totally amazing!"

She sounded unbelievably chipper and something in Sam snapped.

"You can't wake my brother up and you sound positively _thrilled_ about it! Did you fail 'Hypocratic Oath for Dummies' at your medical school?" he snarled.

Realizing the term "ticking time bomb" could appropriately be stamped on Mr. Warren's forehead right now, she dropped the smile and cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, Mr. Warren. It's just that I'm always fascinated by medical mysteries and right now, your brother is one. We're calling in some specialists; I'm sure we'll have answer soon."

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

Three days later, Dr. Halbertson and her specialists—the list of which grew by the hour—were no closer to a solution. The doctors poked, prodded, tested, scanned, whispered, checked notes, wrote furiously, then tested, scanned, poked and prodded some more. They all looked as happy as a kitten with a ball of yarn.

And they were getting on Sam's last nerve.

The object of their attentions remained blissfully unaware of the goings-on. Dean, looking serene and reposed—or, in other words, not at all like Dean—lay sleeping as peacefully as the proverbial baby. The doctors had stopped bothering to whisper, having reached the conclusion that even a tactical nuke going off would not disturb Dean's slumber.

And Dean was completely free from any machines, hook-ups and IVs. His brain functioned perfectly, his heart chugged along, his chest rose and fell without assistance. What had really caused astonishment was that his nails and his hair had not grown even a millimeter and he did not appear to need water or nourishment. Over Sam's objections, the IV had been removed as a test early on; Dean had continued to snore complacently without any signs of thirst or dehydration or chemical imbalance.

No question that he was going to be an entire chapter in a medical textbook down the road.

Sam noticed that, after the doctors and technicians would leave the room, nurses seemed to find a reason to congregate around his brother's bed. Phrases like "so sad" and "isn't he just beautiful" would then drift down the hallway.

Too bad Dean was sleeping through it all. He would be in horndog heaven if he were awake.

On the fourth day, Sam put a call through to Joshua. He no longer believed that this was a medical problem at all. This was clearly Winchester territory.

After listening to Sam's increasingly desperate recitation of events, Joshua said, "Okay, so you boys were in some sort of local museum of magical objects because odd things were going on with the exhibits. Hell," he snorted in disgust, "the owner of that place needs a brain transplant. That's what magical objects tend to do. It's why you try to avoid putting more than two or three in the same location.

"Sam, you have to go back and try to figure out which one Dean was around just before it happened. That's the only way you'll be able to determine how to solve this."

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

The Museum of Mystical Objects was tucked away in a small corner of the big city. It's current owners were a pair of college dropouts whose parents had probably envisioned their daughters becoming doctors or lawyers, instead of New Age, crystal-wearing Mother Goddess worshippers. They had purchased the museum fairly cheaply—with what was left of a trust fund that belonged to one of them—after the former owner had disappeared one night. Mysteriously. Dean and Sam, a minute after arriving at the museum and picking up the readings on the EMF meter, had known there was nothing "mysterious" about it: the former owner had been nailed by one of his own exhibits. Whoever had put the collection together had seriously needed to have his or her sanity checked.

After Dean had collapsed, Sam, rushing to get Dean some medical attention, had suggested that the current owners put everything in the museum to the torch. Or bury them in cement. Or nuke it—nuking should do the job.

He had been pretty sure his advice would be ignored.

Fortunately, it _had_ been, at least for now. Sam had been let in and solicitous inquiries had been made about Dean. Sam appreciated their kindness. On the other hand, he wasn't particularly impressed with their intelligence for deciding to keep the museum intact. One day, their exhibits would eat them but there was nothing Sam could do if his warnings were ignored.

Unless he and Dean came back later and torched the place.

He started in the first room he and Dean had entered. Even though Dean was found upstairs, there was no way of knowing how long it had taken for whatever had whammied Dean to take effect. He shook his head. Only two of the exhibits here were "live" and neither one would have done anything as innocuous as put Dean to sleep. Instead of hanging around a hospital, Sam would have been searching lily pads.

After forty-five minutes, only the room Dean had collapsed in was left. Toward the end of their investigation, they had split up, so Sam had not seen this room before. As he walked in, one object, the largest in the room, caught his eye. It would have attracted Dean's attention, too.

With a sudden blinding flash of insight, Sam knew immediately what had happened. Despite the seriousness of the situation back at the hospital, Sam could not prevent a cackle of laughter from escaping his lips.

Because there was _no_ way he would ever let Dean live this down.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

Sam hung up the receiver and stepped away from the pay phone, glancing at the names he had written down. Having realized, after figuring out what had been the culprit, that he was going to need genuine, twenty-four carat royalty—and not Hollywood royalty, or corporate royalty, or even money royalty, but "My ancestors have ruled kingdoms for centuries" royalty—he had turned to the society maven of the primary local newspaper, which would be easier than combing her column for the last few weeks. Once the people lionized in her column showed up in print, their presence became public knowledge and she did not have any trouble giving Sam three names.

Sam decided to try to see Princess Maria Catherine Therese von Hapsburg, who was the last surviving member of a cadet branch of the ruling house and who had been described to him as a "classy old lady with a great sense of humor."

Because if there were something she would need about this situation, it would be a sense of humor.

The lobby of the Ritz Carlton was a model of a luxury that silently and snottily advised peasants to go around to the back. Sam refused to be intimidated. He was pretty sure that no one here would give him the princesses' room number, but thirty bucks procured an agreement to point her out when she returned to the hotel.

Two hours later, Sam had perused all of the complimentary magazines, including _Ladies Home Journal_ and _Cosmopolitan_—no way that guy in the centerfold had not been digitally enhanced!—and had tried everything on the table along the wall, which contained free nibbles for the guests. The bagels had been especially good.

A sudden tap on his shoulder took him to instant alertness. The desk clerk he had bribed pointed surreptitiously to someone who was just entering the lobby.

She was, indeed, elderly, but she still stood as straight as a flagpole, which gave the impression she was taller than her actual 5'1". Her silver hair was perfectly coiffed, her ensemble very expensive and her taste appeared impeccable. She leaned slightly on an ebony cane with an elaborate silver design on top.

Sam hurried to intercept her. He expected a frosty reception; he got, instead, a coolly appraising stare tinged with amusement. Uncertain of the proper protocol—John Winchester had not trained his sons to be courtiers—he bowed slightly at the waist.

"Uh, Your Highness, I'm very sorry to bother you. My name is Sam Winchester and I desperately need your help."

He turned on the Puppy Dog Eyes of Power full blast. Dean would have ribbed him like mad later, _if_ he had been here.

Which was, of course, the problem. Dean was not able to be here.

Princess Maria smiled and her study of him took on an approving edge. Sam blinked, almost blushed, suddenly feeling as if here were being undressed. Damn. The princess was a dirty old woman!

Now that he thought about it, that might actually make things easier.

"Very well, young man, I will hear what you have to say. Come, over here." She gestured imperiously at several plush chairs set around a coffee table. Sam followed her over and sat down.

A few moments later, her rich laughter floated across the marble-tiled lobby.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

They arrived at the hospital toward the end of the evening visiting hours. The nurse at the station in the critical care wing called out to them that they had only fifteen minutes left. Sam smiled and nodded, steering the princess toward Dean's room.

Dean was lying exactly as he had been for the last four days, unmoving, his face peaceful Sam was struck once again by the un-_Deannes_s of it.

A throaty laugh caught his attention and he glanced over at Princess Maria. She smiled up at him.

"_This_ is your brother? You forgot to mention how beautiful he is. I understand the object's choice now. In the old days, I would have had him spirited away for the winter to one of our family retreats in the mountains—where I would have kept him _very_ exhausted."

"Ma'am!" Sam said in a scandalized tone.

She laughed again. "Such a bloodless age you belong to, child. Well, let us proceed. I always wanted to add "charming" to my titles."

Moving over to Dean's side, she smiled broadly, leaned over and planted one on smack on Dean's lips. The effect was instantaneous. Dean stirred, gave a huge yawn and opened his eyes, to see the face of his Princess Charming hovering only a couple of inches away.

He yelped in surprise, jumped sideways and promptly fell off the bed. The resounding thud was followed by a string of—to Sam's mind, anyway—extremely inventive curses. A minute later, Dean's head popped up, eyes wide and staring.

"Uh, Sammy, what just happened?" Then he frowned, looked around the room and down at the gown he was wearing. "What the fu--," his eyes flicked up to the elderly woman still leaning over his bed, "—_heck_ is going on here?" he demanded.

Sam, fighting a smile, moved closer. "You're in the hospital. You've been here for four days. Asleep."

"I've been _sleeping_ in a hospital for four days? What? No Motel Six available?" Dean asked in an annoyed tone.

"Sleeping, as in, no one could wake you up. You've been quite the medical marvel." Sam noted Dean's puzzled look. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"Uh…going into an exhibit room on the second floor of the museum, looking over the stuff there…" The frown was back. "Then I was here." He looked unhappy. "Okay, spill."

"Remember what was in the room?" Sam was really enjoying himself, now that there was no longer any question Dean would be all right.

"Bunch of stuff. Some of it fake crap, but a lot of it was really dangerous." He looked up at his brother. "Hey, did you tell those two they should nuke the place?"

Sam nodded, amused that Dean and he had been so in tune in their thoughts about the museum, then he steered the conversation back to the fun part. "Remember the spinning wheel?"

"Yeah, got definite readings off of _that_ sucker. I remember I went over to take a closer look…wait, I think I--."

His words screeched to a halt and an expression of horror settled over his face. "No freaking way!" he protested. "Sleeping Beauty was a chick!"

"I suspect," the princess said, looking amused, "that gender is not as important as beauty. And my child, you are beautiful."

Sam nodded solemnly, instead of doing what he _really_ wanted to do. Which was roll around the floor laughing hysterically. "You did always say you were the beautiful one."

"Handsome, Sam. I said I was the _handsome_ one." Dean surged to his feet, outraged. "There's a _big_ difference!"

Dean seemed to suddenly become aware he was being eyed with definite interest by a female old enough to be his great-grandmother. _And_ of just how flimsy hospital gowns were. He reached out and snatched the blanket off the bed, wrapping it around himself.

Sam grinned. He would never have expected to be able to use the words "prude" and "Dean Winchester" in the same sentence.

"Apparently, not a distinction the spinning wheel makes," Sam pointed out reasonably.

"Wait a minute," Dean demanded. "It couldn't be what you think. I mean, the only way to wake me up would be--." His voice trailed off. Sam could see the connections being made. Kiss…wake up…_old woman leaning over him_….

San had not thought Dean could look any more appalled, but he had been wrong. He gestured at the princess. "Dean, meet Her Highness, Princess Maria Catherine Therese von Hapsburg."

Princess Maria stepped regally around the bed and toward Dean. "But you, you beautiful young man, you may call me Princess Charming. And if I were even only thirty years younger, you would not have gotten out of that bed after waking up until spring."

By the time she was finished speaking, she had Dean, who had been backpedaling furiously, all the while clutching the blanket like a shield, pinned against the closet. Astonishment at being propositioned by a nonagenarian –which seemed to Sam to be offending a sense of propriety Sam had not even known Dean had—warred with an expression rarely seen on Dean Winchester's face: total panic.

Sam was having great difficulty staying upright.

The princess finally took pity on the elder Winchester. She patted his cheek and then headed toward the door. She inclined her head at Sam as she passed him.

"I think your brother wishes to dress in private. Unfortunately. I will wait outside."

Sam grinned. "We'll take you back to your hotel. And…thank you very much." The last was said earnestly. Sam knew he had been lucky to find someone who would even listen to him, much less believe.

"Uh, yeah, from me, too," Dean said, though he looked as embarrassed as hell.

"It has been the most interesting evening I have had in years," she replied with a wicked smile.

Dean winced. As soon as the door closed, he began pulling clothing frantically from the closed. He flung the blanket back onto the bed and seemed to be trying to set the world speed record for getting dressed.

Sam watched, laughing. "Dude, she saved your life."

"And ruined my reputation!" Dean suddenly looked horrified again. "You didn't tell anyone else, did you?"

"Not yet. But, Dean, doctors from all over the city have been studying you. I think they just might notice you aren't sleeping anymore and start asking questions."

"Not if we're not still here!" Dean growled, tying his shoelaces.

"You're the wonder of the medical community; I'm not sure they're going to just let us waltz out of here."

Dean was now glaring at him. "Do I look as if I'm going to be asking their permission?"

As if on cue, the door opened and an intern on the night shift walked in studying a clipboard. He caught sight of Dean, awake, upright and fuming, and his mouth dropped open.

"Oh, my God, you're awake. I have to contact Dr. Halbertson immediately!"

He turned and started back out of the room until an arm shot past him and slammed the door closed. A second later, he was two inches away from The Dean Winchester Glare of Impending Death ™. The intern blanched noticeably.

"I'm _really_ in the mood right now to hit something. In a pinch, you'll do," Dean snarled.

The intern backed away from the door.

"Sam," the elder Winchester snapped, "get whatever stuff I have here that I'm not wearing, will you? I'll guard the door." And he smiled nastily at the intern, who remained rooted in place.

Sam already had most of Dean's stuff, including his beloved necklace and ring, in the Impala. Only Dean's watch was rattling around in the nightstand's lone drawer. He tossed it to his brother, who caught it one-handed.

Dean stared down the intern and wagged one finger at him in warning. "Don't even _think_ of calling anyone."

Princess Maria was waiting for them and they started down the corridor, Dean taking point to keep an eye out for any hospital personnel who might be trying to waylay them. It was smooth sailing, though, and they cruised around the corner to head to the elevators, leaving the hallway behind them still and silent.

Until an outraged voice could be heard from around the corner.

"Princess! Get your hands off my ass!"

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

**A/N**: Next chapter is Sam's turn!


	2. Chapter 2: 'Punzel

**Disclaimer**: I ask and I ask but Kripke _still_ won't give them to me.

**A/N**: This is the second stand-alone chapter. It's Sam's turn to have the supernatural bite back! One small unimportant reference to chapter 1; you don't need to have read chapter 1 to read this (but you might like chapter 1! g ) Please read and review.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

His mouth felt as if he had swallowed the entire Sahara, his eyes refused to focus, and damned if his hair didn't hurt. At the same time, Sam Winchester realized he was lying on a large and, he had to admit, comfortable bed with several feather pillows (judging from the way he desperately wanted to sneeze).

The ceiling above was dark wood with gilded rosettes, while the walls were stone. In some places, the walls were hung with rich tapestries. The floor seemed to be a dark brown…_something_ that was noticeably uneven. Actually, the floor seemed to coil and rise in _piles_ in some places, which made absolutely no sense.

_Okay, let's try sitting up._

It should have been simple enough. Sam had been sitting up by himself for years now. He started to lift his head, only to find it being dragged back down.

_What the hell?_

This time, ready for the hindrance, he made it to a sitting position. He turned slightly to try to figure out what was pulling at his head, and almost fell over from the shock.

Okay, yes, he liked his hair long, but _this_ was ridiculous. It fell in waves down his back, off the edge of the bed and then wound around and back and forth over the floor like a line for a ride at Disneyland. It hadn't been the floor he had been seeing, but his hair.

He was beginning to get a _really_ bad feeling about this.

Getting off the bed was harder than it looked. He immediately tangled his size 13's in the cascading waves of his hair and ended up face down in a fairly tall pile of the stuff.

_Just great. I'm going to suffocate in my own hair!_

The only _good_ thing that he could see was that Dean was not here laughing his ass off.

With a groan, Sam pushed himself onto his knees and extricated his feet from the mass of tresses curling across the floor. Muttering under his breath, he stood up, grabbed a handful of hair and pulled it out of his way. He headed for the one window, moving the undulating waves of hair with each step forward. He was pretty sure what he would find when he reached his destination.

Yep. No question. He was in a tower, alright. Sixty feet straight down. No stairs in view, though he could only see this side of the tower. Turning around cautiously, he let his eyes rove over his cell. One room, fairly large, with a bed and a table with a single chair. There was an opening that seemed to lead to just a small closet-sized room.

The in-house outhouse, he suspected.

He sighed. No doubt about it. The only thing missing was the damn dress.

He was fucking Rapunzel.

It must have been an early indication he was losing it, because he could have sworn he heard Dean's voice just then. _You only **wish** you were fucking Rapunzel right now, Sammy. It would be a lot more fun!_

Despite how desperately he wanted out of this mess, he realized he was willing to be rescued by anyone--even the damn Demon--_except_ Dean. If Dean _ever_ found out about this, Sam might as well just throw himself into a volcano. It would be a lot more pleasant.

Sam realized suddenly that his stomach was rumbling and he wondered how—or indeed, if—he would be fed. As if on cue, a ball of light appeared at the end of the table where the chair stood and when the glow faded, there was a golden plate filled with something that, he admitted, smelled pretty good, accompanied by silverware that really _was_ silver and a chalice with a pitcher next to it.

Kicking and pulling his hair out of the way—and cursing every step—Sam struggled to the table. It didn't matter that the food was slathered in rich sauce more to Dean's I-am-so-looking-forward-to-my-greasy/fatty-foods-inspired-heart-attack tastes. He was hungry enough not to care if he was consuming a month's worth of fat calories.

As soon as he was finished, everything disappeared, leaving the table bare once again. Sam looked around at the chamber, which was devoid of books, writing materials, TVs, DVDs, CDs, musical instruments, exercise equipment…he realized he was mentally babbling, but endless minutes, hours (days? weeks?) of boredom stretched before him.

What the freaking hell did Rapunzel actually _do_ all day

Glancing down at the mass of hair curling around his feet and the table legs, Sam could see strands—as proof of the Chaos Theory and in the fashion of necklaces back through the ages—already tangling themselves into knots even though he wasn't moving. He sighed. Great. He was supposed to spend twelve hours a day _combing_ his hair?

God, he hated witches! Stupid old crone.

Okay, _ugly_ old crone. The only stupid one had been him. With all the times he had demanded that Dean focus on the job and not on their waitress' décolletage, _he_ had let his concentration –right in the middle of a takedown—lapse over a damn _kitten_. He realized now it probably belonged to the hag, maybe even her familiar, but then, he was just trying to shoo it out of the line of fire.

Not the literal line of fire. _This_ witch, unlike the Shtriga, was still fully human, just a practitioner of the black arts. They had agreed to try a spell they'd found in the Key of Solomon, designed to strip witches and warlocks of their powers. Dean had been going to do the incantation; for some reason, he always seemed to be more comfortable with Hebrew than with Latin.

Actually, Sam had always believed that what Dean was comfortable with were the matzoh balls and potato latkes Miriam Rabinowitz used to stuff down them when Dad would come to consult with her husband, Rabbi Hiram Rabinowitz, an expert in the Kabbalah and Jewish mysticism. Not that Sam blamed him; you usually couldn't even stand up to walk away from the table after Mrs. Rabinowitz was done with you.

Sam knew going into the hunt that this particular witch concentrated her power in her eyes. So, of course, moron that he was, he heard a footstep behind him while he was kneeling to pick up the kitten and he turned—and looked up. Everything got fuzzy after that—but he damn well remembered her stroking his hair and cackling on about how pretty it was and that there should be more of it—before it all went black.

Then he woke up here.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

Dean just glared at the weeping witch, though inside he was cringing. Crying old women—okay, also crying kids, and crying young women, and crying middle-aged women, and whimpering puppies, and teary-eyed Sammy, and…_geez, Dean, isn't that enough, you wuss?_ He mentally cleared his throat and steeled himself. Before he had stripped her of her powers, she had been one nasty bitch. And she was the only one who knew where Sam was.

"Nothing," she wailed. "You've left me nothing."

"Yeah?" he growled. "Well, if you hadn't been using your powers to screw people up, Sam and I wouldn't have bothered you. So, can the 'woe is me' act!" _So much for that "witches and water do not mix" crap. It that were true, she'd be a puddle of goo by now!_

He leaned forward, his expression hardening. Sam went for the Puppy Dog Eyes of Power routine; Dean found that the Dean Winchester Glare of Impending Death ™ tended to work better for him. She was definitely trying to get as far back in the chair as her restraints permitted her to do.

"Where's my brother?" he demanded.

She tried to look innocent. "Who? I never saw your brother. I swear."

"Right. I'm certainly going to take the word of someone who's already allied herself with the powers of darkness. You're such a trustworthy bunch! Sam was here and there's no way you could miss him. He's about that high," Dean said, raising a hand over his head. He glanced up at his hand and sighed. A certain innate honesty it would have surprised Sam to find out Dean had made him raise the hand another two inches. Much as it galled him to have to do it. "Puppy eyes. Definitely in need of a haircut."

"Ah, him," she said, conceding defeat. "Yes, I saw him. And I don't think his hair was _nearly_ long enough. But," she added hastily catching Dean's increasingly-dangerous expression, "I have no idea where he is. Truly."

It was time to pull out the big guns. "Listen, hag, I have your kitten." He pulled his hunting knife from the sheath strapped to his belt and twirled it menacingly. "How long do you think it will last?"

She stared at him, horrified. "You wouldn't hurt her! She's just a kitten, and she's all I have." Her voice rose to a wail.

_Oh, crap, she's blubbering again! Who the hell knew that agents of evil **cried** so fucking much! And over a kitten. Maybe Sam and I should add a DVD of "Bambi" to our weapons arsenal._

She didn't say anything else, though, and Dean grimaced. "Alright," he said nastily. "I think I'll just go and have some fun."

He walked out the door, ignoring her wails, strode over to the Impala and opened the back door. Only to have his boot attacked by a furball apparently convinced that the world needed protecting from Dean's shoelaces, since this was the sixth time she had tried to wrestle them into submission. Behind her, the makeshift saucer—the cap from an empty peanut butter jar—had been licked clear of milk. Dean bent and scooped her up. She willingly gave up the battle, concentrating instead on licking his face. He rubbed her under her chin and she purred contentedly.

"You were probably going to end up being a witch's familiar, you know that? Now, you're just going to be some crazy old bat's cat. Trust me; it's an improvement." He settled her in the crook of one arm. "I have to borrow a few hairs. Just think of it as one less hairball you'll have to spit up."

The knife was extremely sharp and he was able to get the hairs off with no difficulty. It left her with one patch that was almost down to bare skin and he felt a little guilty about that, but he knew it would grow back.

He held her up at almost eye-level. "You wouldn't consider giving a yowl or two, would you? It's for a good cause." After careful thought, she decided instead to lick his nose. "Didn't think so." He put her back in the car and closed the door.

Stopping in front of the erstwhile witch, he let the trimmed fur fall from his hand to the ground. "There's still more left, you know," he said conversationally. "It could take some time to do real damage."

"You, you, _beast_!" she spluttered. "You leave her alone!"

Before she could start crying again, he leaned in and definitely invaded her personal space. "Where. Is. My. Brother?"

She sighed. "There's a tower about an hour's drive out of town."

Dean blinked. "A _tower_? How did you get him there?'

"It was built by a demon I conjured years ago. The only way in or out is a window at the top. Or a spell. All it takes is the proper incantation and you can transport anyone there. Not," she said indignantly, "that I could do the spell now!"

"Good. Because there was no way I was letting you spell me into the tower. Driving directions will do just fine."

Defeated, she slumped in the chair. "You'll release me before you leave, and give me my kitten?" At his nod, she reeled off the directions, then said, "You might find him a little changed." At Dean's expression, she hastily added, "Not in anyway that's harmful or permanent." She went on to tell him what she had done.

Dean did not stop laughing all the way to the tower.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

Great. Of all the witches in the world, he had to find the one with the warped sense of humor.

Studying the endless coils of hair, he wondered how long it would take for him to braid his hair. Then unbraid. Then start over. _Arghh! Winchester, you are losing it. Could this get any worse?_

At the precise moment, a deep—and familiar—voice wafted up from well below the window. "Sampunzel, Sampunzel. Let down your not-so-golden hair."

Yep. No question. It _could_ get worse. And it just had.

He struggled his way to the window and looked down. Dean was standing at the base of the tower, smiling up brightly at him. Dean made a "come on down" gesture. Sam stared at his brother. Was Dean seriously suggesting that he _jump_? Then the light bulb went off.

Dean wanted him to throw down his _hair_.

For the first time in his life, Sam was one-hundred-ten-percent positive he finally understood why brother's somewhere-in-the-next-galaxy thought processes were the way they were: Mom and Dad had dropped him on his head one time too many when he was an infant.

"Dean, are you crazy?" he roared out the window. "I'm not throwing my hair down for you to climb up! How about using that damn rope you're carrying?"

"Right, Sammy," Dean shouted back. "I'll just run back to the car and get my jetpack. Be up there in a jiffy."

No one did sarcasm quite like his older brother.

On the other hand, there was no way he could let his 4"-shorter-but-still-no-lightweight brother just use his _hair_ as a ladder—and just how ridiculous did _that_ sound?—without having every strand pulled out by the roots. Wait, if he were to tie it around the leg of the table…hm, might work. Which left only the really hard part: finding the damn end of his hair.

"Better take a seat, Dean," he shouted down.

His brother looked up, puzzled, and spread his arms in a "say, what?" gesture.

Sam sighed, envisioning the merriment his next comment would cause. "The floor's piled high with the damn stuff. I can't do anything until I can find the end!"

He had been right, of course. Dean was practically doubled over with laughter. Never before, in a lifetime of wishing his more-than-occasionally-annoying older brother would develop a series of exotic—though not fatal—ailments, had he wanted more to be able to empty a bucket of ice-cold water over Dean's head.

Three hours later, sweating and seriously hoping Dean had run over the damned witch with a steamroller, he found the end. After all of that, he realized he was going to have no choice but to just toss it out the window down to Dean. There was no possible way he could actually tie anything around the leg; he would never be able to pull it through. He sighed and hung his head.

He was just going to have to hope this worked like the fairy tale: Rapunzel still seemed to have a full head of hair after the prince climbed up.

_And did I just equate Dean and a prince? I'm going to need serious psychological help after this!_

Sam walked back to the window, clutching the end of his hair tightly in one fist. He was damned it would have to hunt for it again. Looking out, he saw his brother lying on the ground 60 feet below, fast asleep.

_How the hell,_ Sam wondered, _can you **smirk** in your sleep? He's probably tiptoeing through the tulips with a pair of buxom wenches._

The bastard.

Unfortunately, there was nothing to throw at his blissfully unaware brother. Except, of course, his hair. He was about to start tossing when he realized that, while he could not _tie_ the stuff around the table leg because he would never be able to actually knot it, he could pass the end around the leg and then be able to brace back once Dean started to climb. And, hopefully, not end up bald. It had been bad enough when he was twelve.

Looping the end around the table leg closest to the window, he walked back to the aperture and glanced down. Dean was still asleep but now grinning broadly; Sam assumed the buxom wenches had totally put out. With a nasty smile, he began to toss the flowing locks out the window.

Dean woke with a yelp, arms windmilling to bat the cascade of hair away and ending up getting entangled. Freeing his arms with a snarl, he glared up at this brother.

Sam smiled beatifically and spread his hands. "Oops."

Sam watched as Dean pulled rough work gloves out of one jacket pocket, then shrug out of the jacket. The whole time, his lips were moving and Sam could just imagine the muttered insults directed his way. He smiled contentedly.

Dean took a grip on the "ladder" and nodded. Sam turned to face the room, which was virtually empty now. For the first time, he could see that the floor was filthy. And his hair had been all over it. _Blechhh!_ Now he was itching for a shower.

He leaned his 6'5" frame backward, hands wrapped in the hair, and called out, "Okay."

A moment later, he was almost pulled off his feet as Dean started to climb. He gritted his teeth and braced his feet. Fifteen minutes later, his muscles were aching, he was pretty sure some roots had been pulled out and he was wondering where the fucking hell his brother was.

"Dean," he yelled, "did you stop to read a book?"

"You think this is easy?" came the snarled and tired-sounding reply—fortunately from fairly close—"It's impossible to get a good grip on this stuff. And there are no toeholds on this tower. I think the damn prince brought his own freaking ladder!"

A few minutes more passed and Sam could now hear Dean's grunts and strained breathing. Finally, Dean's voice floated up from just below the window, "I'm here, Sammy."

Sam turned his head and looked over his shoulder, expecting to see his brother's face. Instead, there was a hand, holding up a small object. Sam squinted, then his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.

It was Dean's cell phone, top open and, he was sure, with the camera feature on. There was a soft click and the hand, with the phone, disappeared from the window. Two seconds later, Sam heard an enthusiastic, "Yes!" He could almost see the fist pumping the air.

Sam was positive no jury in the world would convict him.

Dean's head now appeared outside the window, eyes in full Bambi-mode and an expression on his face reminiscent of a six-year old who finds tons more presents under the Christmas tree than he expected. Though Sam knew the picture would come back to haunt him down the road—hell, knowing Dean it could end up on a billboard—he found himself fighting a grin and wondering how the same person could be both five _and_ five thousand years old.

Dean grabbed the window ledge and hauled himself into the tower. Sam released his grip and tried to ease his aching muscles, as Dean scooted past him and tied one end of the rope to the table leg. The older man then tossed the other end out the window.

"How did you find me?" Sam asked, rubbing at his neck and shoulders.

Dean shrugged. "Used the spell—it worked perfectly, by the way; we need to _really_ study that book, dude—but the old bat wouldn't talk, so I threatened to slice and dice that kitten of hers."

"Dean!" Sam said aghast.

"I said I _threatened_ to. I didn't harm a hair on the little furball's cute bewhiskered head." Then he frowned and glared at Sam. "Hey, you think I'm some sort of kitten killer? Thanks, Sammy."

Sam pretty much tuned out Dean's indignation, more fascinated by the fact that his older brother had called the kitten "cute"—_awww!_—and had actually used the word "bewhiskered" in a sentence.

Just when you think you're getting a handle on your brother….

Dean was eyeing him critically. "You can't try to climb down with all that hair hanging out the window; the weight could pull you off the rope. There's no way it's all gonna fit in the Impala, either." Dean grinned. "And I'm pretty sure you don't want anyone seeing you like this."

Well, there was no question about _that_. It was bad enough Dean knew about it; he had no doubt his brother was already plotting hours of merriment at his expense. He sighed.

"You're right. We'll have to take off the excess."

"No problem," Dean said cheerfully.

_Too_ cheerfully, but Sam's reactions were a few seconds too slow. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Dean's hunting knife then felt a rush of air as the carefully honed blade snicked past his ears. Sam yelped but had enough presence of mind not to jump, which could have led to a definite Van Gogh moment.

There was a sudden breeze on the back of his neck. And on his ears. He reached up but he knew, with a sinking heart, what he would find.

He had been sheared. His probing fingers duly noted that his hair was now the perfect length. _If_ he were a medieval monk.

"Dean," he hissed. "I said, 'take off the excess'."

His older brother shrugged, an innocent expression on his face. "You didn't say _whose_ version of excess, yours or mine."

Okay, technically, Dean is right. Not that it will save him, the sneaky son-of-a-bitch.

"I'll go first," Dean said. Then he grinned at Sam. "Judging from your expression, if you went first, I wouldn't trust you not to burn the rope before I could get down."

Damn. I'm going to have to work on my poker face!

C'mon, Sammy," Dean said, slipping out the window, "there's a Motel 6 just waiting for us somewhere."

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

One more crappy motel room in the road adventures of the Winchester brothers. Sam wondered briefly how well a travelogue entitled "1,001 Motels You Should Definitely Avoid" would sell. He could write it in his sleep. Or perhaps that should be, lack of sleep.

He glanced out the open door. Dean was putting his duffel bag into the trunk of the Impala. A moment later, Sam heard the sound of the trunk lid thudding closed.

Sam placed his laptop into its carrying case and slung it over one shoulder. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the room's mirror and grimaced. It'll grow back.

Long before that happened, though, he would have found a way to get Dean back.

He closed the door behind him, pulling hard, since the door appeared to buy into Newton's little-known Fourth Law of Motion: "A door in the open position will remain in the open position unless you break your wrist slamming it shut."

Sam settled into the shotgun seat. Dean was already seated, tapping an impatient tattoo on the steering wheel.

"I'll be thrilled to leave this town behind," Sam grumbled.

Dean laughed. "Sam, you have to get a sense of humor. Besides, you always told me the girls at Stanford just loved your long, windblown locks. So the witch just loved them a little longer."

"It's not funny, Dean."

"Yeah? You didn't feel the same way when I was freaking Sleeping Beauty—not to mention, fending off a dirty old princess—then it was all 'har, har, har'."

"Har, har, har? What are you, a pirate?"

"Not after seeing that film, Sam. Pirates wear too many ruffles and way too much eyeliner. I think they play for the other team."

Sam grinned. The image of Dean dressed as Captain Jack Sparrow was mind boggling. His improved mood lasted until they reached the end of the parking lot. There, nailed to a telephone pole, was a 2' by 2' blow up of the picture Dean had taken on his phone camera. It was slightly grainy, but definitely clear enough to make out the details: Long flowing brown locks gathered in piles and a deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression. "Have you seen my brother?" was neatly printed on the lower border.

Dean let out a whoop of laughter that only increased when he caught Sam's glare. Refusing to damage his already-bruised dignity any further, Sam just stared straight ahead and fumed silently.

_Dean Winchester_, Sam snarled silently. _Dead man driving_.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

**A/N**: Hope you enjoyed it; please let me know what you thought.


End file.
